


Wrong Is Right When It Comes To Us

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Stereo Love: Excerpts [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Dark Sam, M/M, Rimming, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 07:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Maybe if he can keep Sam here this one time, it’ll fix him. Maybe it'll be enough.He’s got to try.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No real time-stamp on this; Dean knows that Sam's been drinking demon blood, though. Maybe sometime in early Season Five? Let's go with that.
> 
> Title and lyrics from "Selfish" by Future ft. Rihanna. Does that opening verse fit or what?
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

_It was right_   
_Even though it felt wrong_   
_Nothing ever stopped you_   
_From showing your progression_   
_Suddenly_   
_Broken lines_   
_Driving backwards_   
_Making all the wrong turns_   
_Saying all the wrong words_   
_Dodging angels_

 

Dean knows that Sam has been holding back, keeping it in. He falters every so often - when he’s tired, when he’s drunk, when he’s hurt and bleeding, but he’s got a good handle on it, for the most part. But this Sam, desperate and craving, is in no position to deny himself anything. Dean watches him lick his lips, dropping his eyes to Dean's mouth. Sam's fingers twitch restlessly, need singing through his veins and bleeding out his hands. Dean's seen addicts before. He knows the tells.

Sam goes out, almost every night, comes back in the darkest parts of the early morning shifty-eyed and sullen, but quieter, calmer. Dean’s had just about enough of it.

Maybe if he can keep Sam here this one time, it’ll fix him. Maybe it'll be enough.

He’s got to try.

He steps in front of Sam as he heads for the door, pleading yet resolute. “Sam, not tonight. Just...stay here.”

Sam smirks at him, watching him from hooded eyes. “Why?” he asks, just to stir the pot. Dean sighs heavily. “You know why, man.”

“What’ll you do, Dean?” Sam asks, cuts his eyes sideways at Dean, testing the waters. Dean knows he’ll push for as much as he can get. Problem is, Dean isn’t in really in a position to deny Sam much either. Only what he wants most. “Whatcha gonna give me? Whatcha gonna agree to?”

_How far are you willing to go?_ but it’s unspoken. Unnecessary. They both know the answer.

"Anything," Dean swears, his word his bond. That’s the way a man should be. John had taught them that. Too often, lately, Dean finds his words falling short, not enough. No longer. "Anything you want. Anything you need." His voice pitches lower on the last syllable, the letters sticking to his tongue.

Sam laughs, sharp and brittle. “Well, we all know that’s a lie,” he grins, spreading his hands wide, showcasing the nonexistent “we”. “There’s one thing you won’t give me.”

“Anything else. Anything but that.”

Sam laughs again and the sound wriggles down Dean’s spine. His Sam doesn’t laugh like that, hollow and mocking. Where his Sam is, however, is a goddamned mystery.

“So all it takes is a little demon blood and suddenly you’re throwing yourself at me.” Sam stares at him, false mirth evaporated. “Every other fucking time: ‘Sam, we can’t’, ‘Sam, it’s wrong’, ‘Sam, we’re brothers’. Blah blah blah. You hypocrite.”

Dean doesn’t reply, doesn’t need to. Sam’s not looking for a response. He already knows that all those words were the last bastion of a desperate soul pushed to the brink, only trying to save them both from plummeting over the edge. Dean wanted just as bad as Sam did. But it was his job to protect Sam, from both of them. Big brother rules; he doesn’t make them up, just lives by them. Dies by them, sometimes.

“Funny how incest is better than a little harmless blood,” Sam pretends to muse, watching him, predatory. “Priorities, man. Fucked _up_.”

He could argue, but there’s not much point. Sam knows Dean is fucked up. Pointing it out is just proof of how fucked up Sam is. Not that it matters, really. Let them be fucked up together. Better than being fucked up apart.

Sam’s eyes flick to the door. Dean’s losing him, losing the edge of distraction. Time to up the ante. “We gonna talk all night?”

Risky, but it pays off. Sam’s eyes snap back to him, flaring. His lip curls viciously. His head tilts sardonically. His hand comes up, palm out, like he’s Luke fucking Skywalker.

Or Darth Vader, maybe.

Dean feels a horrible thrill travel over his body, gut reaction to something touching him without making contact. Sam has never used his freaky demon blood powers on him before; hell, Dean didn’t even know it would work on a human and he’s pretty sure Sam wasn’t convinced either. Until now. Dean’s on lockdown, his body unresponsive. His muscles quiver, helpless, and he makes the only movement allowed to him, grits his teeth and feels his jaw work. Sam's eyes glitter at him and then he looks away and Dean is free, in control again.

He feels oddly bereft.

"Is 'anything' still on the table, Dean?" Sam is mocking him, waiting for Dean to falter, go back on his word. Not this time, though. Word and bond. Dean raises his chin, defiant and submissive all at once. "Anything, Sam."

Sam strikes like a snake. His hand snaps out, pushing into Dean's shoulder, forcing him back against the wall. Dean feels the feverish heat of Sam’s skin through his layers. He goes with the flow, waits with his back to the drywall, throat bared and eyes downcast to the side. Sam is still at arm's length; a good distance, with his stupid-long reach. His fingers tighten in Dean's shirt, at his shoulder, gripping the fabric like he can use it to knit himself back together. Dean just waits.

Another flurry of motion brings Sam's body flush against him. They're hip to hip now, and Dean's gaze snaps up to focus straight ahead. Sam's throat works as he swallows. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his pallid skin and when they're this close, Dean can feel the tremors. Sam’s chin scrapes against his cheekbone, stubble rasping on his skin as he presses closer. His tongue comes out to flick against Dean’s earlobe. “Do you know what I’m gonna do to you, Dean?” Sam whispers, lips brushing his brother’s ear. Dean can’t help the shudder that sweeps his body and he feels Sam’s mouth curve into a smile on his skin.

They’ve been here before, a handful of times; clumsy, unsure teenage fumbling in the Impala or motel room when Dad wasn’t around, and one terrible, whiskey-fueled night three weeks after Jessica burned on the ceiling. They’d never gone too far, thanks to Dean’s ever-present guilty conscience and Sam’s innate compulsion to listen to his big brother. But that’s gone out the window as of late, and Dean’s guilt is too busy raking him over the coals for letting Sam get this messed up to start with. There won’t be anything stopping them now.

Sam pulls back just enough to get a grip on Dean’s chin, raises his head. Dean’s eyes flick upwards, unbidden. Sam’s gaze is wild, pupils dilated with more than just lust. His skin is pale, eyes burning dark in his face. His lips, bitten raw in his torment, are parted, breath quick and shallow.

He’s beautiful, as always.

Dean feels some fleeting emotion he couldn’t name with a gun to his head cross his face. Whatever it is, Sam’s eyes flash in triumph and he swoops in to capture Dean’s lips.

He tastes blood and prays it’s just from Sam’s ravaged mouth and nothing more. Sam’s lips and tongue take control, punishing and just this side of savage. He feels their teeth clack together, painfully. There’s nothing tender or loving in this kiss, but Dean kisses back anyways, just as fierce and a little more tempered. It might be selfish, but he may as well get something out of this fucking disaster.

Sam’s grip on his jaw tightens, almost bruising, and Dean whimpers faintly under his brother’s mouth. Sam chuckles darkly, directly down Dean’s throat. He pulls away, still holding Dean in place. Then, just as quick, he’s gone. He breaks the contact between them, stalking toward the bed, stripping off his shirt as he goes. Dean follows like a lost soul.

Sam gets his hands on the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, ripping it fiercely up and over his head and tossing it who knows where. He spins around and shoves Dean, _hard_ , so he falls backwards onto the bed. Sam follows, straddling his brother’s hips and pressing their bared skin together. He brushes their jaws together, teasing a kiss that never comes, stubble rasping against stubble, before his mouth drops down into the curve of Dean’s neck, teeth scraping his skin.

Sam’s teeth push harder; Dean writhes as Sam bites down and he can feel it when the skin breaks, just where his neck meets his shoulder. Sam laps at the bite, but he’s not seeking to soothe. The motion of his tongue turns into suction and Dean realizes with a jolt that _Sam is_ _drinking his blood_.

He should be sickened, but not only is it sending shivers racing down his spine, it’s also somehow a relief, like if Sam could get what he needed from Dean, he wouldn’t need to look for it elsewhere. He knows it won’t actually work like that - he’s not a demon, after all - but right now, it’s enough and he grabs Sam’s head, holds him in place. A moan slips from his lips and Sam growls in response against his shoulder.

Sam licks once more over the wound and drags himself back, looking Dean dead in the face. There’s a streak of blood in the corner of his mouth and something glinting in his eyes that might be shame, but Dean jerks upright, pressing them chest to chest, and then he’s tasting his own blood on Sam’s lips.

Their mouths slide together, slick and hot. Dean feels Sam’s lips twist under his and that’s all the warning he gets before Sam rocks his hips hard into Dean’s. He can’t smother the gasp that punches out of his chest as Sam rocks against him again and he can’t help the way his own hips fuck upwards, seeking contact.

They build a steady rhythm, tight and controlled, shoving against each other. Dean lets his head fall forward onto Sam’s shoulder, breathing in sweat and salt. He digs his fingers low into Sam’s back, just above the waistband of his jeans, pulls him in even harder.

Just as Dean feels his body start to break the tempo, hips jerking out of time, Sam shoves him flat against the bed, making sure to push his thumb fiercely at the bite mark on Dean’s shoulder. Sam swings his leg up and over, climbing off Dean, leaving him sweaty and shuddering, shivering without his brother’s feverish heat.  

“Not yet, Dean,” Sam says darkly, swiping a hand over his mouth and watching Dean tremble on the bed. “We don’t want the fun to be over too soon, do we? Or else I might have to go and find something else to do.”

“Sam…” It’s a warning; Dean’s indulgence has limits and Sam is quickly approaching them. Sam just grins wolfishly. He thumbs open the button of his jeans, strips them off, leaving him in worn red boxer briefs that might have belonged to Dean at one point. Sometimes it’s too much effort to sort the laundry. Dean’s eyes are drawn inexorably to the line of Sam’s rigid cock, straining at the thin material. He licks his lips without realizing it and Sam laughs. “Slut,” he teases, approaching the bed like a panther, sleek and stealthy. He grabs Dean by his ankles and drags him viciously across the bedspread towards him, positioning himself between Dean’s legs, grinning when Dean spreads his thighs wider.

Sam leans in, traces a circle around Dean’s belly button with the tip of his tongue, before he dips a little lower and unbuttons Dean’s jeans with his fucking _teeth_. Dean can’t help the way his pelvis strains upwards, seeking the heat Sam breathes against the bulge distending his zipper. Sam tugs the zipper down with his mouth, bites Dean through the denim a little harder than necessary, and he yelps, torn between pain and pleasure. Sam withdraws and yanks the jeans down over Dean’s hips, pulling them off completely and tossing them to the floor. He takes in the sight of Dean’s cock tenting his gray boxer briefs, palms Dean through the fabric, squeezes tight, just this side of too hard. Dean’s hips jolt forward in response. “God,” he grits out, craning his neck to see his brother framed between his legs.

“No, just me,” Sam replies. He’s a fucking comedian tonight. His fingers dig into the waistband, make quick work of the underwear, flinging it onto the floor with the jeans. Dean’s aching cock bobs against his stomach, dark red against his pale skin. Sam eyes it appraisingly and just as Dean expects Sam’s hot tongue on his skin, he feels it - somewhere else entirely.

The flat of Sam’s tongue presses right against Dean’s hole, against the puckered flesh, and Dean nearly chokes. He feels Sam’s wicked grin on his skin, right at the centre of him. Another heated lick has Dean whining low in his throat. Sam’s tongue goes stiff, the tip pushing past the ring of muscle and Dean thrashes on the bedspread. “Jesus _fuck_ , Sam!”

An iron bar of muscle slams down over his hips, Sam’s arm holding him in place as his tongue continues the assault. Dean can feel his eyes rolling back in his head, lost in the sensation of his baby brother’s tongue buried in his ass. He knows where that mouth has been lately, knows what it’s been doing, and somehow it only makes everything even more filthy dirty fucking _hot_. He knows he should be disgusted but he can’t bring himself to care. He clenches his muscles tight around Sam’s tongue and grips the bedspread tight in his fists. “ _Sammy_ \- fuck, Sam, holy God. Sam Sam Sam _Sam…_ ”

There’s a sudden movement; Sam pulls away and Dean bites back a moan at the feeling of loss. Sam sheds his own shorts, finally, dropping them onto the growing heap of their clothes and retrieves a small bottle of lube from a side pocket on his bag. He slicks his ramrod cock, lazily stripping his hand along his skin, drawing Dean’s eyes like a magnet. He squeezes another glob of the liquid onto his hand before snapping the lid shut and tossing the bottle onto the bed above Dean’s head.

His fingers press against Dean, slick and wet and none too gentle, one long digit pushing without ceremony into Dean’s body. Dean groans at the invasion, tossing his head on the mattress. Sam works the finger within him, rubbing against the walls of his insides, adds a second finger with just as little warning as the first. Dean pushes the twinge of pain aside, grinds down on his brother’s hand, panting like a marathon runner. Sam twists his fingers, scissoring them open and brushing firmly against Dean’s prostate, grins feral and sharp at Dean’s breathless cry.

The fingers twist for a moment more, then withdraw as quick as they entered. Sam grabs Dean’s calves, one hand sticky on his skin, and forces his legs up and open. The head of Sam’s dick, wet and hot, nudges at Dean’s opening. That sticky, tacky hand leaves his leg and grips his face, forces Dean to focus on Sam’s face, intent and hard, all teasing vanished.

“Look at me, Dean.” His voice is dark and dangerous. Their eyes meet and Sam slides into Dean, heated silky flesh disappearing into his brother’s body until he’s buried to the hilt. Dean doesn’t even try to suppress the low moan that slips from his lips.

Sam gets a better grip on Dean’s legs, forcing them wider, higher. He pulls out, leaving just the head inside, and pushes home again. Dean shoves back against him, the slow drag and push not enough, he needs more, knows he’ll have to beg for it. He’s not above it.

“Fuck me, Sammy,” he gets out, voice ragged and hoarse. Sam obliges, a growl spilling from his throat as he draws out and slams back in again. Dean gasps, breath catching painfully in his chest as Sam picks up speed. “Sam, give me more. I need _more_.”

“Fuck,” Sam echoes roughly, the first chink in his armor. He snaps his hips harder, pounding into Dean. “Fuck, _Dean_.”

Dean’s got him now, got him on the ropes, and he knows it even as his body rocks back and forth under his brother’s punishing strokes. He shakes loose of Sam’s grasp on his legs, wraps them around Sam’s body, pulling him in deeper on each thrust. Sam falls forward, bracketing Dean with a hand on the mattress either side of his head and Dean reaches up, drags him down to his elbows, crashing their mouths together again. “More,” he whispers against Sam’s lips and he’s rewarded with a sound dangerously close to a whimper.

They’re shaking the whole bed, the headboard slamming against the wall and the frame creaking loud. But Sam’s eyes have drifted shut and he’s biting his lip, blood welling to the surface as he gives Dean all he’s got, hips driving forward like a jackhammer. Dean’s almost got him. He groans again as Sam hits his prostate over and over. So close, he’s so close to saving Sam, at least for tonight.

He gets a hand between them, on his weeping dick, gets in one or two quick strokes before he’s pulsing hard onto his stomach, Sam’s chest. He feels his body lock up around Sam’s cock, clamping down like a vise and that’s it, he’s got him now. Sam’s hips jerk out of rhythm, and all it takes is Dean’s whispered “S _ammy_ ” for him to shudder and gasp Dean’s name in reply. Dean feels the hot gush inside him, grabs Sam’s shoulders, riding him through the tremors.

Sam slumps on top of him, sweaty forehead against Dean’s bloody shoulder. He slides free of Dean’s body and Dean feels come spilling out of him, but it’s the least of his concerns. He drags Sam’s limp body into his, cradles them close, sweat-slick skin sliding together. Sam’s eyes are still closed and Dean gets a hand on his face, shaking him a little. “Sam?”

Hazel eyes drift open and they already look better, calmer. Not enough, but enough for now.

“Dean…” His name slips weakly from Sam’s lips, faint and tired. Better. It’s always better when he can get Sam to sleep. “Okay, man,” Dean soothes, smoothing Sam’s hair back from his damp forehead. “I gotcha. I gotcha, Sammy.”

“Dean…’m sorry,” Sam says softly. Better and better. Remorse, sorrow; not emotions he’d normally wish on his baby brother, but all Dean hears is the regret behind the words. Sam’s not totally lost yet. Dean can still pull him back from the edge, still keep him from spiraling over for good.

All he has to do is keep him close.


End file.
